


Like A Light In The Darkness

by Kissed_by_Circe



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Gendry is a good friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-01 14:04:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20259289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kissed_by_Circe/pseuds/Kissed_by_Circe
Summary: The three calves on Arya’s shoulder jump and headbutt each other, and Sansa allows her fingers to linger on one of the little heads, marvelling once more at the way the colour of its outline shift from the brightest sky blue to darker shades and back. Sometimes she wonders what colour the little moths she’s hiding under her bodice will have once she meets her soulmate – will it be a soft goldish yellow like the cat that sometimes peeks out from under Gendry’s doublets, a shimmering river green like the fishes dancing on her father’s neck, or a fiery dark crimson like the wolf she spied on her governess’ wrist once? – but mostly she just hopes that they will change their colour at all.





	Like A Light In The Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> So in this AU, most people have moving animal tattoos that'll change colour once they meet their soulmate (I read too many stories with Daemons lately). 
> 
> Jon was brought up in King's Landing and kept from finding his soulmate by his stepmother, but things are about to change for him 😊
> 
> And thanks for all the kudos and comments 😊

🦋

Elia Martell is, above all, quiet. Her voice is barely a whisper when she murmurs into the king’s ear, her steps soft as a cat’s when she walks about the keep, her eyes big and dark and deep. She’s quiet, and she hears – and sees – everything. The way Jon looks at his brother, and his brother’s wife, and his brother’s child. How his gaze lingers on Margaery’s swollen belly, how his eyes go dim whenever Aegon and Margaery touch or kiss each other, and, of course, the deep, bone-deep longing on his face when he plays with little Helaena. “You would protect her with your life, wouldn’t you?”, she asks him one day, once Margaery has entered her confinement, once the gardens and small courtyards and halls have cleared of giggling, chattering Tyrell girls. A few of her favourite ladies are playing with the little princess, encouraging her to walk around the gardens on her chubby legs, and Jon nods, his solemn face soft when he looks at his niece.

“She has a better claim on the throne than you do, as do Rhaenys and her boys, and Viserys, and Dany. You are the king’s natural son and nothing more. You know that, don’t you?”, she presses on, and he looks at her, his confusion written clearly on his face. “Elia…?” He only allows himself to call her that in private, away from court and prying eyes, and she cannot help but soften towards him, as she always does. Her motherless son, raised alongside her own children and her good-sister. But this is important, for him, for her, _for the realm_. “Swear it. Swear that you won’t ever rebel against your siblings and nieces and nephews. Please, Jon.” She’s not begging, she won’t beg Jon, but her soft, quiet voice is strong enough to tell him that it’s important to her. She knows that he’s loyal to his siblings, to Helaena and to Rhaenys’ sons, but she still needs to hear him say it. “I- I do. I swear it. I don’t want the throne; I’ve never wanted it.” “Good.”

Two hours later, Margaery gives birth to a boy.

🦋

The three calves on Arya’s shoulder jump and headbutt each other, and Sansa allows her fingers to linger on one of the little heads, marvelling once more at the way the colour of its outline shift from the brightest sky blue to darker shades and back. Sometimes she wonders what colour the little moths she’s hiding under her bodice will have once she meets her soulmate – will it be a soft goldish yellow like the cat that sometimes peeks out from under Gendry’s doublets, a shimmering river green like the fishes dancing on her father’s neck, or a fiery dark crimson like the wolf she spied on her governess’ wrist once? – but mostly she just hopes that they will change their colour at all. Their presence and the gentle fluttering of their furry wings mean that she has a soulmate somewhere out there, the only problem is _finding_ them. They’re not a Northerner, they would’ve already met during one feast or the other if he were one, she tells herself. They have been to the mountains and the Vale and the Riverlands, visiting her mother’s siblings and staying with them for weeks to make sure that all of their bannermen could introduce them to their young daughters and sons, her father had even gone so far as to take her and Arya to the Stormlands, which had proven fruitful, to everyone’s surprise. But while Arya is betrothed, and Robb has been married for three years now, her own marks remain black, and her desperation grows. She just wants to have a family, and when her good sister gets with child, she is ready to marry anyone, as long as he makes her belly swell like Marsella’s.

And then the king announces that he will hold a grand tourney, to celebrate the birth of his grandson.

🦋

The Red Keep is packed with courtiers and lords and ladies and knights and maidens, more people than Jon has ever seen before. He knows that everyone made sure to keep him away from highborn girls ever since he was born, only allowing him to meet men and boys and servant girls, but he only realises how many ladies are out there now. It’s a bit overwhelming, and, to be honest, he’s _scared_. He’s never really talked to a girl that wasn’t a servant or a good friend, and now that he is allowed to get to know the daughters and sisters and nieces and aunts of every single lord they could find in Westeros, he’s hopelessly lost. Even if he finds his soulmate here, what is he supposed to say to her, how should he act around her? Maybe he’ll get injured in a joust or fight, be unable to attend the feast… and then try to find out how to talk to girls before he tours the Seven Kingdoms in search of his soulmate. That’d be a good idea, but he doesn’t get injured during the tourney. No, he wins, as he always does. Someone gives him a wreath – winter roses and forget-me-nots and cornflowers and periwinkles and golden yarn – and he lets his horse trudge about the place a bit, while he catches his breath and swipes the sweat from his brow. And then he sees _her_.

🦋

The moths flutter, and she discreetly pulls on her neckline to keep them hidden, but no one’s looking at her. They all look at the prince. His gaze glides over the rows and rows of courtiers and ladies and lords, and when it lands on her, the moths flutter even more. She stops breathing, and the crowd does, too. He’s starring right into her soul, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open, and she realises what’s going on. He won. He’s going to crown a queen of love and beauty, like Rhaegar crowned Lyanna – but Rhaegar ripped apart the Seven Kingdoms when he did. Another Targaryen prince, crowning another Stark girl – what will become of them? She’s not betrothed yet, but she doesn’t know if he’s married or not, if he has a wife somewhere in the crowd those family will start a war over this, or if the queen, the _real_ queen, will have her imprisoned or beheaded to keep him from having children. She knows nothing about him, she realises, and she starts panicking, but there’s nothing she can do. It’s all in his hands, and he seems to know it, too. He holds her gaze, and inclines his head slowly, as if giving her a sign. She nods, hoping that he won’t come to her.

🦋

He wants nothing more than ride over there and talk to her, touch her, get to know her, but he knows that he was to wait. Now is not the right time, and he hopes that she understands him, when he turns his horse around, into the direction of the royal box. “It is impossible to choose only one lady as queen of love and beauty”, he starts, trying to remember the words he has prepared for this, “as every single woman here is beautiful and graceful beyond measurement.” A few girls giggle and sigh, and Lady Ashara, half hidden behind the queen, pulls a face at his words. “So I will crown the princess that has given me her favour. Princess Helaena, I will always fight for you, and prince Baelor, of course. Will you do me the honour?” The toddler leans forward in her nurse’s lap, and he notices that her dress of icy blue brocade and golden silk matches the colour of the wreath in his hands. Someone must’ve known beforehand that he would win, he thinks, someone like Margaery who knows how well he fights and who he is going to crown if he wins, but he doesn’t care about that now. The only things he can think of now are the beautiful young woman sitting next to lord Baratheon, and the dragonflies on his chest.

🦋

He tries to be discreet. He isn’t sure about this, about her, in the beginning, and allows his squire to lead him away and take of his armour. Something tells him that he shouldn’t just run up to her, sweaty and dirty and clumsy as he is, and he doesn’t want the crowd to watch their first interaction, and then there’s of course the chance that it’s not her, that he’s wrong and she’ll laugh about him – no, he’ll wait until the feast, until the king announces that he’ll be the new lord of Oldstones and its surrounding lands – a lordship in exchange for his claim and his loyalty, he supposes, to make sure that his children, should he ever have any, will be satisfied enough not to fight for the throne, and a gift as well, for how much he loves the old ruins and how often he has spoken of building the castle anew – and tries to find out more about _her_. The girl next to lord Baratheon is his wife, everyone agrees, they’ve been married for a few months and, judging from the way he looks at her, must already be expecting a child.

She laughs when lord Baratheon twirls her around on the dance floor, and his heart sinks.

🦋

“It looks like he’s trying to hide”, Gendry groans, and she’s close to sighing in annoyance as well. Somehow everyone seems determined to keep them apart, with all the lordlings and courtiers that ask her to dance, and dozens of young ladies flocking around the prince, but he’s not betrothed, at least not according to Gendry, and the queen hasn’t stopped him from talking to highborn ladies the way she used to, before the birth of little prince Baelor, so it cannot be her doing that keeps them from meeting. And she has to admit that her own plan – dancing into his direction with Gendry, who will introduce her and leave them alone afterwards – isn’t the best. So far, they’ve only managed to awkwardly step around other couples, and the prince fades into the shadows of the ballroom with every spin she does, until he disappears completely from her view. She almost curses, and the grin on Gendry’s face shows her that he knows exactly what she’s thinking, and she playfully shoves at his chest when someone next to her clears their throat.

She recognises the woman with the lilac eyes and the sandy hair, which is adorned with starshaped diamonds, immediately, and drags Gendry with her when the older girl leads her outside. “You are my cousin, I believe.” “So you must be Clarisse. I recognise my father in you.” Clarisse smiles, a sad smile, and gestures to the path ahead of them, leading away from the hall and into the depth of the gardens. “His Grace, the new lord of Oldstones, would like to walk with you, and lord Baratheon, of course, if you want to”, she tells them, and her heart flutters in her chest, while the moths flutter on her skin. “Please, lead the way, cousin.”

🦋

Clarisse’s fair hair and pale dress are the first thing he sees, followed by the darker shades of lilac and copper of the young woman that walks a step behind her. Her fingers are intertwined with lord Baratheon’s, and from what he’s seen earlier, in the hall, when they danced, he’s sure that they’re married, happily. He wishes her all the happiness in the world, and if she loves lord Baratheon and wants to spend the rest of her live with him, then he won’t bother her, but he has to speak to her at least, to find out if it’s really her. He wants to be sure. Their cousin, Clarisse, the only girl he actually knows, apart from his aunt and sister-in-law, smiles when she sees him, and he grimaces. He hopes she’s not telling them horrible things about him, and he hopes that he won’t seem like a whole and utter fool once they actually talk.

🦋

He looks even more handsome up close, and she smiles softly when she notices how nervous he seems, a stark contrast to his calmness during the fights earlier. She’s sure that he’s her soulmate from how the moths move on her skin, and she hopes that they won’t crawl out of her cleavage when she talks to him. She can’t wait to finally hear his voice when he talks normally, and she prays that the queen will allow them to spend time together. Maybe he’s not allowed to marry because of his claim to the throne, but even if it is so, she wants to get to know him. Gendry lets go of her hand, and nods encouragingly, before he takes a few steps back, as does Clarisse, allowing her to fall into pace next to the prince, the two of them a quiet reassurance in her back.

The prince’s voice startles her when he begins to speak, but she smiles at him, the low, rough rumble of his voice sending shivers down her spine. “You should have been _queen of love and beauty_. If I hadn’t promised Helaena…” “You kept your promise. I wouldn’t have wanted the princess to be cross with you because of me”, she breathes, and is rewarded with a boyish smile that makes her insides melt. “I’m glad that you understand. I have a – a little something for you. A sort of compensation, if you like.” She hasn’t seen the small flower posy clutched in his hands, too preoccupied with the depth of his dark eyes and the desire to drown in them, and she examines the blossoms, syringas and bellflowers and honesties, bound with silver wires, before she decides to put them in her hair, into the V of braids her maid has woven her long hair into.

🦋

“They look pretty with my dress, don’t you think?”, she asks him, turning around so that he can see them, and his gaze flitters from the flowers to the pale lilac of her dress. The blossoms do look lovely with it, and her dress looks good next to his velvet doublet, dyed the darkest shade of purple. They look like a couple, he thinks, and casts a look back to where lord Baratheon pretends to be interested in some rose bushes. “Um, I have to show you something”, he whispers, and, taking a deep breath, he pulls his sleeve back where he feels his dragonflies flutter on his skin. They have moved there during their conversation, if you could call it that, and he’s glad – he didn’t want to take of his doublet and shirt just because they decided to hide on his chest or his back. Her eyes go wide, and her finger tips caress the wing of one of them, marvelling at the way the lines shift from lilac to cream and back. “They changed during the tourney today”, he explains, and she pulls down the neckline of her gown, exposing a pale shoulder and a swarm of moths, violet and silver, her voice barely a whisper. “Mine did, too.” He cannot help himself, he has to grin at her, and he reaches for her shoulder when someone clears their throat behind him. Lord Baratheon looks at them with his eyebrows raised, and she takes a step back and tugs at her neckline, hiding the moths again. “I understand that you’re needed at Storm’s End, but please, you’re always welcome here. I would love to get to know you, my lady.”

🦋

There’s an urgency in his voice that she doesn’t understand at first, but then she looks to Gendry, and thinks of how prince Jon’s never said her name, and how she dragged poor Gendry here and –

“I’m no longer needed at Storm’s End, though I like spending time there, with my sister and good brother. Gendry is a good husband, and I am glad that Arya’s happy with him.” She sees the exact moment when he realises that she’s the other Stark girl, not the one he thought she was, and the relief on his face makes her giggle. “I am Sansa. The people you talked to probably thought you meant Arya, she was sitting on Gendry’s other side during the tourney.” “You don’t know how happy I am that you’re not her.” There’s only a moment of hesitation before she’s in his arms, their lips locked and her hands in his hair, blissfully unaware of how Gendry grimaces, before he decides to resume his role as her <strike>chaperone</strike> protector, and tries to get them back to acting like a proper lady and a proper knight again.

🦋

“I’m sorry that I don’t have more to offer to you”, he whispers into her hair, still not sure if he’s dreaming or not. They’re in Oldstones, in the part that has been rebuilt already at his orders, there are flowers everywhere in their chambers and drunken guests celebrating outside the open windows, and Sansa, _his bride_, is in his arms, the moths on her neck fluttering against his fingertips when he gently pushes her hair away to kiss her bare back. She hums, contently, and turns around, until she’s laying on her back, pulling him down again. “If we have a boy, we could call him Tristifer”, she whispers, and he smiles the broadest smile she has ever seen on him.

🦋

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [Daisy Ridley as Ophelia](https://obiwan.tumblr.com/post/186874939316/hans-christian-andersen-the-little-mermaid) // see the aesthetics [on my tumblr](https://kissed-by-circe.tumblr.com/post/187377265883/like-a-light-in-the-darkness-the-three-calves-on) :)


End file.
